


Almost Lovers

by DestinedForJohnlock



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-27
Updated: 2013-03-27
Packaged: 2017-12-06 17:30:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/738256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DestinedForJohnlock/pseuds/DestinedForJohnlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A first-person one-shot request from Tumblr user carryonmywaywardarcher. Prompt: John having to deal with life and his feelings for Sherlock after he "died." Set to the song Almost Lovers by A Fine Frenzy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Almost Lovers

The spring buds are just reminders of the unwelcomed new.

No longer am I looking forward to the mornings where the windows are clear of frost. No longer do I reach for my book and thermos of tea to go out and read in the park when the weather’s nice. No longer can I bear to watch the new crap programs on the telly, even when Mrs. Hudson insists we keep up with them. The blooms mock me, coming to life once more after the harsh winter. The pollen mucks up my morning commute to work, leaving me congested and miserable when I walk into work. Spring is not my ally.

The summer heat isn’t eased by the breeze from the river anymore.

No longer do I feel the sheen of sweat on my body evaporate as it used to while running after criminals in the streets of London. No longer does the smell of rotting flesh from an experiment neglected from the convenience of air conditioning greet me after a long day at work. No longer can I find the strength to turn on the news and listen to the uptick in the number of murder statistics brought on by the heat. The sun blazes much too brightly in my window in the morning. The fridge is too empty to look at when I want to cool off. Summer is not my ally.

The autumn colors don’t paint a picture of change like it used to.

No longer is the crunch of leaves beneath my feet, the ones I’m mindful to deliberately step on, scolded at for the annoying sound. No longer will my body obey commands to drag out the seasonal clothes because of what still hangs on the back of the door in that room. No longer can I enjoy my biscuits and tea in my chair when the air outside starts to cool in an earlier setting sun. The second cup I always make sits stone cold on the table. The fireplace taunts me with its lack of wood and warmth so I have yet to clean it out since the year previous. Autumn is not my ally.

The winter chill only serves to slow me down.

No longer do I rush into shops or to work to escape the bite that strong winds blow in. No longer will the tea and coffee warm my body, nor do they have a taste every time I sip. No longer am I able to muster up the motivation to get ready for an office party, or decorate the flat with lights and tinsel, or put a Santa hat on the skull. The nights are too long and too silent in the flat. The cold is the only thing I can feel. Winter is not my ally.

These things used to bring me pleasure. The turning of the seasons used to mean another year of thrill, another year of adventure, another year of you and me and us.

Now they’re another year of grief.

No, they're not ‘normal.’ ‘Normal’ would be going to work and coming home every weekday to a relatively clean flat, fixing dinner and going to bed at a decent hour. ‘Normal’ would be going out on the weekends with mates and on dates, socializing and mingling with other people. ‘Normal’ would be the life… for some. I don’t even want normal. Christ, normal is boring. But I certainly don’t want grief.

I want you back.

You are everywhere I go, everything I do. That stupid coat of yours is in the corner of my eye, but I look and it’s something else entirely. The echoes of the violin still ring in my ears when I wake, and for a moment I think you’ve returned until I reach the bottom of the stairs and find the living room empty. Lestrade texts me and I expect to find case details, but they’re just invitations to go out to the pub for a pint or to swing by for some takeout. Little things are still there, like the muscle memory in my arms that remind me to clean your messes, or the instinct to order your usual meal at Angelo’s on the rare occasion that you do ea—that you _did_ eat.

Fuck, Sherlock, this is hard. I’m a _soldier_ , for god sake. I’ve seen men die and I’ve been through hell. But nothing prepared me for this. Nothing in life ever told me that I’d be losing a friend, a great man, a partner as important as you, as uniquely impossible as you.

Nobody told me my heart would be breaking.

I wonder, if you were in my position, if you would feel the same.

But you’re not a machine. After everything you’ve done for me, I can’t possibly imagine you’d feel any different. Or at least I hope you wouldn’t.

You are the life of me. You are the ghost of me.

And I owe you so much.


End file.
